First Date
by penvision
Summary: Last chapter up! W00t! Fillmore and Ingrid go on their first date together, and it doesn't exactly go smoothly. But how bad can things get?
1. Questions and Dignity

A/N: This was going to be a one-shot, but apparently it will be multi-chapter due to my obsession with details. As a slight warning, I'm not much of an updater, so if I get lazy, poke me.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Fillmore!, it is property of Disney and some other people and… yeah.  
  
…  
  
Fillmore walked over to Ingrid's desk, standing patiently while she finished up the last of her paperwork. His overall demeanor was composed and relaxed, but he could feel the sweat glistening on his palms, the second hand's movements echoing in his head.  
  
Ingrid finally peered up, green eyes gazing at him from under her bangs. "What's up, Fillmore?"  
  
Fillmore forced himself to ignore the snickers behind him, instead finding strength in her gaze. "Uh, I was just… um." Eep. Strength gone.  
  
Fillmore shoved his hands into his pockets, letting the thumbs hook around his belt loops, and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the floor, but he didn't let his eyes drift. With a deep breath he started over, "I just wanted to… yeah." He swallowed, but the lump in his throat wedged itself in tighter.  
  
"Just ask her, you big baby!" Anza's voice echoed from somewhere behind him. Fillmore rolled his eyes, catching a glimpse of Karen at her desk, 'speak for yourself.'  
  
Ingrid raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt. With stored strength Fillmore didn't know he had, he started again. "Ingrid Third, would you like to go on a date with me tonight?"  
  
She blinked surprised, confusion crossing her face for a split-second, but Fillmore caught it. She nodded her head once. "Sure. Yes."  
  
SNAP! The two threw their arms over their eyes, blinking away stars. Danny knelt on one knee, camera in front of his face, grinning like a maniac. "I finally got the infamous 'first date' picture! You'll thank me later."  
  
Ingrid rolled her eyes, a small smile on her face. "Seven, then?"  
  
Fillmore blinked once, twice, and nodded. "Seven."  
  
…  
  
At 6:45 Fillmore was beyond nervous. He was beyond panicked. He was beyond scared. Fillmore had hit petrified. Who would have thought a girl could drive him so crazy? He shrugged it off and continued digging through his sock drawer. 'Black socks… black socks… bingo!' He pulled a pair of socks out and held them up to the light. His eyes widened and jaw dropped. 'Dark blue?! When will I ever need dark blue?!'  
  
Ingrid's upper torso was immersed in her closet, random pieces of clothing she had forgot she even owned tossed behind her. She pulled out a black tank top and frowned. 'He said dinner, and Fillmore likes to impress, so it probably won't be a hang-out place…' She pulled out a dress and smiled. 'That'll work.'  
  
…  
  
At 6:59 Fillmore found himself standing outside of Ingrid's door, dressed in tan khakis, a black dress shirt loosely tucked in, shiny black shoes carefully laced, and navy blue dress socks. His jacket was tossed over his left shoulder and held in place by his hand while his right hand was poised over the doorbell. He took a deep breath before hitting the button.  
  
A minute later the door opened to reveal Ingrid Third. She was wearing a short sleeved black Chinese dress adorned with white flowers across the chest. Her hair was held up by black chopsticks, bangs pushed behind her ears. She waved to someone behind her before turning to Fillmore, smiling. "Ready?"  
  
Fillmore blinked, eyebrows raised, head cocked to the side. He swallowed, 'wow.' Then he realized she had said something. 'What did she say…?' He looked at her questioning eyes and nodded, "yeah, I am." Ingrid stepped down and let him latch his arm around hers before they began making their way down the sidewalk, apparently accepting his answer. Fillmore let out a soft sigh. 'Dignity saved.'  
  
"So… are we walking the whole way?" Ingrid raised an eyebrow at her partner turned date.  
  
"Would you like me to carry you?" Fillmore held her gaze for a few seconds before smirking, Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Truth be told, I was planning on my mother driving us, but she got called into work. Thought about bikes, but…"  
  
"It's a nice evening for a walk."  
  
"Yeah, it is." They shared a smile.  
  
…  
  
Three blocks from Ingrid's home the tall houses shifted to the downtown mom and pop shops, small and packed closely together, but each unique. They wandered slowly down the sidewalk side by side in silence, peering in different shop windows full of odd and ends. The slowly-setting autumn sun cast a warm glow on the town, sparkling between the tree branches and shining off of the cars passing down the street.  
  
Fillmore stopped outside of an older two-story brick building nestled on the outskirts of the city's main square. "Here we are Miss Third."  
  
She read the neatly painted green letters in the front window, a smile slowly spreading across her face, "Alimento De la Madre?"  
  
Fillmore pulled open the door for her, "sí, señorita Third, este es un restaurante muy bien.* Pero, hijo no tenemos y nombre le ponemos.**"  
  
Ingrid waved him off as she stepped through the door, "No sea mal pensado.***"  
  
Fillmore followed her in, frowning. "Ok, you've passed my vocabulary level."  
  
The two seated themselves at a small, round table by one of the first story windows, presenting them with a view of the bustling city square. Fillmore and Third watched the people drift along the streets, neither entirely comfortable. A soft mariachi band tune played through the speakers, partially drowning out the blended conversations of other customers.  
  
Fillmore grabbed his napkin with the skill of an ex-thief and wiped down his sweaty palms. He watched Ingrid from the corner of his vision, she sat up straight in her chair, eyes trained on the square, a hand nervously playing with her chopsticks. Fillmore frowned, trying to think of something to say.  
  
An older waitress wearing a traditional Mexican fiesta dress walked over to them, pulling out a pad from some invisible place and clicking her pen. "Hola kiddos, what'll it be por la noche?"  
  
Fillmore rapped his fingers on the table for a second, letting his eyes scan the menu. "Chicken fajita and some nachos, por favor."  
  
Ingrid glanced at the menu, "cheese quesadilla, and two cokes."(A/N: product placement!) The waitress nodded and walked off, singing softly to the mariachi music.  
  
Ingrid looked around the restaurant before meeting Fillmore's eyes across the table. He grinned, "You've got to admit, little lady, this is pretty darn coolsky."  
  
Ingrid raised an eyebrow and smirked, Fillmore's random comment lifting the tense atmosphere. He placed his hand on the table, palm extended in a silent invitation. She smiled, a small turn of the lips, before placing her hand on his.  
  
"It's swinging, daddy-o. And thank you."  
  
Fillmore raised an eyebrow, "for what?"  
  
"For this," she waved her hand vaguely at the restaurant, "and for getting me out of doing that paperwork."  
  
Fillmore nodded, absentmindedly running his thumb over the top of her hand. "No problem, besides, O'Farrell needed something to do."  
  
Ingrid rolled her eyes, "so when do you think Anza and Tehama will finally admit they like each other?"  
  
"Oh Anza's already admitted it. We made a deal, I ask you out and he asks Karen out." Fillmore grinned, eyes sparkling behind his glasses, quite pleased with himself.  
  
"…So this whole date's a bet?" Ingrid raised an eyebrow, her smile gone.  
  
"Are you complaining, Third?" The frown stayed, and Fillmore realized that he'd have to choose his words carefully. "It's not a bet, it's motivation." …Fillmore grimaced, 'that probably didn't come out right.'  
  
Ingrid's smirk slowly returned, but it never reached her eyes, "can't be wrong when it comes to work, can you, Fillmore?"  
  
He simply raised his eyebrows before bringing her hand to his mouth and softly kissing it. "You're never part of work, Ingrid."  
  
She opened her mouth to reply-  
  
…  
  
*yes, miss Third, this is a very good restaurant.  
  
**but, don't count your chickens before they have hatched  
  
***don't be evil-minded 


	2. Food and Fire

She opened her mouth to reply- "Here you go, lovebirds." They both looked up to find that the waitress had returned, a wide tray full of food propped on her shoulder. She dished out the Mexican food and started towards the kitchen again, tossing the bill behind her.  
  
Fillmore watched it float towards the table with time honed accuracy and land slowly on a corner before picking it up. His lips tightened as he glared at the paper, hoping that the writing would magically switch to English and making a mental note to take Ingrid to a regular restaurant next time. Ingrid was relatively fluent in Spanish (AN: she is a genius, and translates Japanese), but Fillmore was too polite to bother her now that their food had been served. He simply slipped a twenty behind the bill and placed it back on the table before starting on his fajita.  
  
A tense silence fell over the pair, felt only by them. Fillmore looked up at his best friend and partner, silently watching her movements. Her skin glowed from the setting sun and candlelight, shadows dancing across her form from the playful flame. She looked up, feeling his gaze on her, and raised an eyebrow, a light brush painting her cheeks. Fillmore continued to watch, because for the first time in too long he was allowed to behold Ingrid Third without guilt or secrecy, without embarrassment or regret.  
  
She tilted her head to the side in contemplation as a lock of black hair escaped the hold of her ear and fell across her face. Ingrid lifted her hand to tuck it back, but Fillmore beat her to it. He leaned over the table slightly and pushed the clasp of hair behind her ear before letting his fingers graze her cheek, a small smile saved only for her passing over his features.  
  
His arm tickled in pain as he brought it back, uncomfortably warm and definitely shifting to hot. He looked down in time to see a trail of black smoke drifting from his elbow before a tiny flame sparked to life. Fillmore stood up in shock, chair tipping back and slamming against the ground, "dog!"  
  
The flame swiftly traveled up the back of his arm, flicking at the air in yellow delight and poking at his skin while lacing and jumping across threads of his shirt. He snatched his napkin, sending silverware flying to the ground with a clang, and rubbed it against his upper arm, smothering the flames. A sigh of relief escaped pursed lips and Fillmore glanced at Ingrid, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.  
  
He was positive nothing could get worse, until another flame peaked at his elbow, quickly traveling down his sleeve toward his hand and drifting onto the napkin. Fillmore chucked the napkin into the middle of the floor before smashing it repeatedly with his shined shoe. His eyes drifted to his arm, his wrist still on fire, before they took in his immediate surroundings.  
  
Ingrid bolted out of her seat, over the initial shock, and grabbed his arm. She pulled him over to a larger table and shoved it into a pitcher of ice water, splashing the surprised customers' food. "¿Está bueno?*"  
  
Fillmore's black sleeve was charred and smoking, his face was slightly distorted in pain, his hand was dripping ice water, and his shoe smelled of burnt rubber. Ingrid and the waitress looked him over before Ingrid turned to her and nodded. "Está loco de remate.**"  
  
Fillmore looked up, slightly dazed, "Me operaron del higado.***"  
  
…  
  
The sun had finished setting and the street was illuminated by the lights of main street, a few people dotting the sidewalk and a few stars dotting the sky. Ingrid pulled Fillmore along the sidewalk in a calm but determined walk, her eyes constantly searching. She finally spotted a bench sitting under the street light on the corner.  
  
They sat down and she reached for his burnt arm, carefully unbuttoning the cuff and tenderly pushing it up a few inches. Fillmore bit down a grunt of pain and grasped her wrist, stopping her. He moved his hand up his arm, hovering a few inches above his skin, until it reached his shoulder. He gripped the fabric where the sleeve attached to the torso of the shirt and pulled, ripping off the sleeve.  
  
Ingrid took his hand in hers once again and deftly inspected his arm. A 50¢piece sized welt bulged out of his elbow, and both could tell that it would form into a nasty blister by Monday. Two thick, puffy, pink lines ran along his arm, one running the length of his upper arm, stopping an inch before his shoulder, the other along his lower arm to his wrist. Ingrid sighed, "this looks pretty bad, Cornelius."  
  
"It was worth it." Ingrid looked up in surprise to find a smirking Fillmore staring back at her. She returned the smile, the blush resettling on her cheeks.  
  
…  
  
*Is he okay?  
  
**He's stark raving mad  
  
***They operated on my liver (I don't know why I put that in there)  
  
A/N: Ok, I guess these are going at the end of the chapter. A huge thanks to WaitingForTheRain for helping me with the fire scene and to Geia for the needed poke. No cliffe, this time, but I think we'll get Fillmore's burns taken care of in the next chapter. Poor kid.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Disney's Fillmore! …Disney does, the company name's in the title! 


	3. The Art of Holding Hands

A/N: This is, sadly, the last chapter. I know that technically it could've ended the last chapter, but who ever really wants a story to end? More importantly, besides my one-shots, this will be my first completed story in… four years, at least.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Disney's Fillmore, if I did it would be on more. Because I never get to watch it. …Wish I had cable.  
  
…  
  
'Ding!' Fillmore and Ingrid stepped into Tom's Pharmacy on the corner of Main and Oak. They blinked in surprise as they were hit with the odd aroma of bandages and blinded by the florescent lighting. The pair entered the first aisle and walked side by side, arms brushing while they scanned racks, Ingrid with a purpose, Fillmore with slight boredom. It was an odd sight, the boy dressed to kill but missing an entire shirt sleeve, jacket tossed over the opposite shoulder, and the girl in a black Chinese dress, still looking as good as when they left for the restaurant.  
  
Ingrid paused halfway down the row and inspected a shelf, her hand brushing Fillmore's good arm as it drifted over different creams. He watched her look, not really paying attention to anything going on around them. His burns throbbed every few seconds, which was a lot better than the constant searing pain that had finally faded, Fillmore had decided, but worse than the original prickling sensation he started with.  
  
He was brought out of his daze as Ingrid gave up and continued down the aisle, her arm once again brushing his as she stood, their fingers touching. His hand clenched in response and Fillmore was sure she was trying drive him insane. He let out a slight sigh and turned to follow her through the rows of products, fighting with himself. 'Take her hand, don't take her hand, take her hand…'  
  
Ingrid stopped again and examined the bandage shelf. Fillmore stopped beside her and their arms brushed again. Before she could move hers away, Fillmore grabbed her hand gently in his good one. She turned to him, surprised, and a blush settled across her face in realization. "Sorry."  
  
Fillmore's only response was to intertwine their fingers and give her hand a gentle squeeze before turning his head to inspect the shelf again. Ingrid watched him a second more before turning her gaze to the shelf, a small smile appearing on her face. She reached out and grabbed a white fabric wrap and some gauze pads with her free hand and the two walked hand in hand toward the medical creams.  
  
…  
  
Ingrid lifted her full hand and set their findings on the counter as Fillmore unhurriedly let go of her hand to get his wallet out. The old pharmacist stepped out of the back room and inspected them, his gray eyes peaking out over his spectacles. "This for your arm there, son?" His voice was low and a bit scratchy, words coming out in a relaxing drawl.  
  
Fillmore nodded and pulled out another twenty, setting it on the counter. "Yes, sir."  
  
"Keep your money, a man such as myself has no need for it. Just get that wrapped up." He slid the cream back to Ingrid. "Reapply everyday 'til you run out, best to be a bit liberal with it in the beginning." A smile and a wink before he disappeared into the same back room.  
  
Fillmore let Ingrid take his arm, stretching it out and turning it over. She shifted on the bench and wished for better light as she opened the burn cream. Fillmore sucked in his breath as the ointment touched his skin, freezing his pulsing burns. Both held their breath as fingers spread the ointment along the red marks, hands tenderly running over damaged skin, never applying pressure. Ingrid looked up and gave Fillmore a small smile before grabbing the gauze pads.  
  
She delicately placed two gauze pads on his lower arm, then one on his upper, and finally one on his elbow, careful of the blister. Their eyes met again while Ingrid clutched the white wrap, but there was no smile now. She took a steadying breath. "This is going to hurt a little." Fillmore nodded. She started an inch below his shoulder, unrolling the soft cloth and pulling it around his arm slowly. The light pressure, barely more than a butterfly's kiss, stung like a thousand needles poking his skin and Fillmore turned away, his good hand gripping the bench. Fingernails dug into the painted wood as the wrap reached his elbow. A hushed "sorry" escaped Ingrid's lips before she continued. Fillmore nodded dumbly, biting down a string of curses.  
  
"K, it's done."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
…  
  
At 8:30 Fillmore and Ingrid walked along the sidewalk towards Ingrid's house in silence. A few of the shops were starting to close up as the last of the sun's rays peeked over the buildings, and traffic was light along the roads. A fall breeze swept past the pair, cool to the touch, and Ingrid let out an involuntary shiver. Fillmore grabbed his jacket and slipped it over her shoulders, letting out a small smile when they traded glances. "Better?"  
  
Ingrid nodded, tracing the lining with her fingers, "yeah, thanks."  
  
Fillmore wrapped his arm around her waist and she leaned her head on his shoulder as they continued their walk home.  
  
…  
  
They stood on Ingrid's porch, lamp light shining down. Ingrid removed Fillmore's jacket and returned it to him. "See you Monday?"  
  
Fillmore blinked before leaning in and brushing a kiss across her lips. "How 'bout tomorrow?"  
  
Ingrid slipped a hand behind her and opened the door, stepping into her home. "I can do tomorrow."  
  
…  
  
The end! Hurray!  
  
Marlyssa - She did call him Cornelius, didn't she? I think I put it in there to represent the seriousness of the moment, a backwards formality that she probably won't do again.  
  
Soulful-sin - Fillmore was definitely OOC in the first chapter, but I think that it's because his character on the show is defined strictly by his job, so that's the only Fillmore we see. I'm glad I did better in the second chapter, though. As for Anza and Tehama, I'm probably going to flip a coin on a sequel.  
  
Among the Roses - Wow, first one? I'm glad I made a good impression.  
  
SilberEngel - It's definitely a fluffy little piece, innit? Obviously this one's stuck at PG, but I'll try to write a PG-13 Fillmore ficcy in the future for you guys.  
  
The Crimson Lugia - Wow, I'm a big fan of your stuff, I'm glad you enjoyed this so much. ^_^ And thanks for noticing the details, I think they help make the story. I definitely stripped Fillmore of his dignity, but he seems to have handled it well.  
  
Ice Dagger - Random Spanish is wonderful, innit? I'm glad you enjoyed the fire part, I'm a bit of a pyro myself.  
  
Ekaphant - I don't really see Fillmore and Ingrid having a traditional relationship, either, but it's fun to play around with the idea. You're site kicks ass, btw. 


End file.
